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THE EXILE'S DIRGE.
95
Loved and bright things to resign,
As even now this dust of thine;
Yet to hope!—to hope in Heaven,
Though flowers fall, and ties be riven—
Yet to pray! and wait the hand
Beckoning to the Fatherland!"
And the requiem died in the forest's gloom;—
They had reach'd the Exile's lonely tomb.
